


i just want to learn how, somehow, to be loved myself

by quidhitch



Series: i found a way to let you in, but i never really had a doubt [3]
Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Marriage, a greyhound named ruby whomst is inspired by a real life hero, original dog characters sdlfkjsldkfj
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 12:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16872642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quidhitch/pseuds/quidhitch
Summary: It becomes a thing. Or, Tony purposefully makes it a thing, because different people have different strategies for adjusting to the reality of a newfound lifetime commitment. Two weeks down, forever to go.





	i just want to learn how, somehow, to be loved myself

**Author's Note:**

> theres probably (definitely) typos in this but love me anyways

It becomes a thing. Or, Tony purposefully makes it a thing, because different people have different strategies for adjusting to the reality of a newfound lifetime commitment. Two weeks down, forever to go.

Tony comes up behind Steve in the mornings, pokes the part of his side where Tony knows he’s ticklish, and cackles over their subsequently ruined eggs. _Good morning, husband_ , he says, biting cheerfully into a Pop-Tart, like it’s silly, like it’s a joke between just them.

And he mutters _pass me that Philipshead, husband_ , when he’s six hours into a three-day-non-stop kind of project. He tilts his head, goggles slipping halfway down his nose, and waggles his eyebrows at Steve. Steve scoffs a little, but leans over to press a kiss to Tony’s temple before reaching for the screwdriver.

Steve laughs the most when he uses it as a preface in SHIELD briefings — _As Steve’s husband_ , he says, and goes on to make a point that’s entirely unrelated to his status as Steve’s husband. Clint can often be seen miming vomiting in the background.

And then it— and then it changes into a whole other thing, and not because Tony’s been an idiot, no, this time, _Steve_ gets to be the idiot. Let nobody say this isn’t a marriage of equals.

“I’m sorry,” Tony closes his eyes, and imagines a beach. A beautiful beach in Fiji. Thousands and thousands of miles away. “Barton, I’m gonna need you to repeat that for me. And it’s probably best if you get a good arms-swinging length away first.”

There are vague sounds of what Tony assumes is Clint awkwardly shuffling backwards.

“Steve hopped in the rift. Well — the rift was sucking Natasha in, and then Steve kind of hopped in front of her, and then got sucked in himself.”

“Steve hopped in the rift,” Tony repeats.

“Uh…. yeah?”

“The rift as in the rift in the time-space continuum? The rift in the time-space continuum created by Reed Richards?”

“Yep,” Clint scratches the back of his head, “yeah. That would be the one. Richards says it’s fine though! The chances of him getting spat out somewhere benign are very, very high. Plus, he’s got the shield! And a loaded gun. Thor went in after him — it shouldn’t take them that long to find him. They… said… not to worry?”

 _Okay_ , Tony thinks. _Okay, this is fine. My husband does unnecessary, dangerous shit all the time. I’m not going to worry_. _Not worrying_ \- _how hard can it actually be?_

Very, very hard, is the answer.

Someone takes Tony home. He doesn’t exactly remember who. He tries to put on the suit, to make his way down to the lab so he can go a couple rounds with Reed fucking Richards, but he thinks it’s Natasha who pins his wrists together, shoves him into a car.

What follows is the most agonizing six hours of Tony’s life.

He tries to go to his workshop, start furiously working through solutions, trying to devise solutions of his own. He calls Bruce, he calls Rhodes, he calls his favorite professor from MIT. He builds— _something_ , something that sparks and puffs and doesn’t do much else. It’s his own fault, he keeps getting distracted by this sweater Steve left hanging over one of the work chairs. Every so often Tony’s gripped with the urge to reach out for it, press it to his face and breathe in the scent of Steve’s aftershave and stupid Arm and Hammer deodorant. But hehas this bizarre notion hat if he does that, he’ll start crying, and if he’s crying it’s going to be very hard to see the screens through his tears.

The part of Tony’s brain that’s still clinging to rational thought reminds him that Steve’s been in much worse scrapes for a much longer time before — ….but, that obnoxious little voice in his head reminds him, not since the earliest days of their relationship, and even back then, it’s never felt like this. Never felt like Tony’s insides are getting turned out, like if he slows down to think he won’t be able to breathe.

Six hours. Just six hours. And at the tail end of it, Tony’s had eight cups of coffee, snapped thirteen pencils, and set seven fires.

He’s still gripping the extinguisher when Steve appears in the entryway of the workshop, arm in a sling, a fucking beard covering the lower half of his face. His hair is also — darker. And long. He’s leaning against the doorjamb, resting his head against the frame, looking at Tony with this sweet, tired smile. That expression quickly devolves into alarm as Tony charges at him, throws his arms around Steve’s shoulders and squeezes so tight Steve lets out a light grunt in pain.

“Geez,” he mutters, brushing a light kiss on Tony’s hair. “For me it’s been a week and a half, but Richards said back here I was barely gone for half a day. Was it longer?”

Tony pulls back, sliding his hands along the scruff on Steve’s face. Steve closes his eyes and leans into the touch, but Tony shakes his head, tugging a little meanly at his beard.

“Ow,” Steve says, but he’s still smiling, even if it’s tinged with a little uncertainty, “What’s wrong?”

“Steve Rogers,” Tony is deeply embarrassed by the fact his voice seems to be shaking, but it’s not enough to override his angry determination. “I am your _husband_. If you jump into Reed Richards’ death rip of doom, you— you shoot me a text first. Asshole. Asshole,” Tony repeats, and throws his arms around Steve again, burrowing his face in Steve’s neck.

“Okay,” Steve mumbles, running a soothing hand up and down Tony’s back, “okay, yeah. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Asshole,” Tony insists.

“I love you,” Steve agrees.

They stand like that for a long time, arms around each other in the entry of the workshop, the faint smell of fire extinguisher fluid hanging in the air. Eventually, Steve wraps an arm around Tony’s back, slides another into the crook of his knees, and picks him up, bridal style. Tony just hangs on, resting his head against Steve’s chest, still furious but absolutely unwilling to let go, for his own sanity’s sake.

“We’re going to have a fight in the morning,” Tony tells him, tilting his chin up to look at Steve. “Our first fight as a married couple.”

Steve leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, adjusting the weight of Tony in his arms. “About the beard or the mission?”

“Don’t be cute. I hate you right now.”

“Sorry.”

Steve takes them to the bedroom, settles onto the edge of the mattress. Tony shifts until he’s resting between Steve’s legs, Steve’s front pressed up against the line of his back, Steve’s beard tickling the nape of his neck. They hold hands. Tony rubs his thumb meaningfully along the wedding band wrapped around Steve’s ring finger.

“I am your husband,” Tony repeats, and his voice doesn’t shake this time.

Steve kisses the side of his neck, wraps a protective arm around Tony’s stomach. “You’re my husband,” he agrees, and whatever came apart inside Tony during the last six hours slowly, torturously starts to stitch itself back together.

* * *

Steve adopts a greyhound named Ruby. She is very large and very weird and scared of an innumerable amount of things - the list so far includes doors, things that squeak, Pepper, screwdrivers, oven mitts, the left side of the couch in the sitting room, anything that’s orange, and the sound of soda bottles opening.

She loves roast chicken, running, elevators, DUM-E, and, most of all, Steve. Steve carries her like a puppy even if she’s far too big for it and he runs with her every day, even when it’s raining. He also gives her belly rubs, knits her sweaters, and talks to her when he thinks Tony’s not listening.

She’ll never love anyone more than she loves Steve, but Tony begrudgingly admits a mutual affection has developed between himself and the dog. Despite her reservations about doors, the second she sees Tony on the other side of one she’ll bound through it fearlessly. She doesn’t actually jump on him, but she will sit on his feet and look expectantly up at him with her weird, long face, very clearly demanding attention. He can’t really resist scratching her under the chin, even if he knows he’s just roped himself into an hour of snuggling where she will quite literally whine if he takes his hand away for more than fifteen minutes. She quiets down a little when he sings her Ruby Tuesday, but Steve looks so lovesick the first time that happened that Tony feels kind of manipulative doing it now.

In the back of Tony’s mind, he knows what this is starting to look like. A home (the Tower), a kid (Ruby), and a husband (Steve). It’s the life he’s always been afraid of — the life he never thought he’d ever, ever want.

But the second it’s threatened in literally any way, Tony has a full on conniption, as evinced by ReedRiftGate 2k18. Tony still can’t talk about that without his eye twitching.

(Steve still does lots of stupid, unnecessary, dangerous shit, but at least he makes an honest effort to tell Tony before he does. And, at Tony’s vehement direction, he stays the fuck away from Reed Richards unless the world is actually, literally ending.)

(That’s only happened twice in the past month, so Tony thinks they’re doing alright.)

“You think she knows what we’re doing when we make her leave the room before we fuck?”

Steve puts his hands over Ruby’s ears, scandalized.

“I’m just _asking_ ,” Tony grins, rubbing at her chest. She’s far too big to be a lap dog, but unfortunately Steve carries her so much that she really thinks she is. She has such a weird, awkward body that she’s only ever comfortable completely stretched out across Tony’s lap or laying on her back like an overturned roach.

“You’re going to traumatize her.”

“She has us as parents. She’s already been traumatized.”

“No,” Steve says, leaning over to press a delicate kiss on Ruby’s nose. She licks his cheek appreciatively. _Hey, I do that, too_ , Tony thinks. “You are an incredible father. She loves you so much and she’s the happiest dog in the world.”

Tony’s heart melts. —Not a pathetic amount, though. Just enough that he can still be very suave and look largely unaffected by his earnestly charming husband.

“She better be,” Tony scritches Ruby under the chin, “considering how much I pay for her food and accommodations.”

They’re both supposed to be writing mission reports, but they spend there rest of the evening lying on the couch, talking to each other about absolutely nothing and cooing at Ruby in soft voices. And, for a minute, Tony’s entire world is the sound of the rain pattering at the window, the smell of Steve’s cologne against his couch cushions, and the slightly bony weight of their dog in his lap. It's hard to imagine things ever getting better.

* * *

When he woke up that morning Tony _really_ didn’t expect to round out the day picking up his husband from a police station, but sometimes that’s just how these things go.

He hasn’t set foot in a police precinct since he was — god, he doesn’t even know, seventeen, maybe? Sixteen? Before Howard got every police chief on the Upper East Side in his pocket, started bribing them to take Tony straight home. Unsurprisingly, they look mostly the same, except now the flickering fluorescent lights are gonna give his middle-aged brain a migraine.

The guy manning the front desk seems to be thoroughly engrossed in his crossword. He doesn’t even look up until Tony says, “evening, officer”, mouth tipping into a crooked smile as the uniformed individual in question chokes a little on his coffee. “I believe you have something of mine.”

“Mr. Stark,” the guy starts — his name tag reads ‘Officer Pedesco’, and he has a thick Brooklyn accent that makes ‘Mr.’ sound like ‘Mistah’. “We woulda let everyone they’re holdin’ with him go, but the detainment request came from the mayor and nobody could get in touch with that office to override the mandate. And we tried real hard to let _just_ him go, but he’s—”

“—A stubborn asshole,” Tony finishes, still smiling as he fishes his wallet out of his pocket. “It’s fine. I’ll cover bail. For everyone in custody.”

Officer Pedesco blanches a little. “Mr. Stark, that’s a lot of—“

“—Trust me; I can afford it.”

So Tony pays bail, collects Steve’s personal effects, and follows the fumbling, bright-eyed Officer who escorts him to the holding cell. Steve is sitting at the center of a bunch of twenty-somethings, listening to a young girl talking with an expression that's nothing but utter focus and compassion. His brow is creased and he’s leaning forward just a little bit, eyes widened in that helplessly earnest way that makes Tony’s chest seize.

He only looks up when the Officer starts to unlock the cell, his features softening into something else at the sight of Tony.

“You didn’t have to come yourself,” Steve says, suddenly sheepish. “I thought you’d just send an intern. Or your new PA.”

“And miss baby’s first arrest?” Tony asks, tossing Steve his jacket. Steve catches it deftly, and pulls it on over his absurdly broad shoulders. Tony is distantly amused by the shy, interested glances of his fellow cellmates.

“Hardly my first arrest,” Steve snorts, and Tony wonders if Steve thinks that’s somehow comforting. He mostly makes up for it by stepping into Tony’s space, pressing a sweet kiss in greeting to his lips.

Tony stands dutifully to the side as the rest of the kids in the cell shuffle out, thanking Tony for bail and shooting admiring looks at Steve. Steve spends a couple minutes exchanging contact information with the girl he was talking to when Tony first arrived. They talk in low, serious voices, and Tony is quietly impressed with how firm her voice is. Most people get all fluttery when addressing Captain America. 

“If they’re still not listening after today, let me know. I’ll get into direct contact with the Dean and see if I can do anything.”

“Sounds good. Thanks again, Mr. Rogers.”

“You know, you could call me Steve.”

The girl wrinkles her nose, flips her dreads over one shoulder. “Nope. Still weird. See you later.”

She thanks Tony briefly before ducking out, and Steve sidles up next to him as they watch her leave. Tony idly laces their fingers together.

“So what was the cause?” Tony asks, gently tugging Steve towards the direction of the exit. Steve goes easily, squeezes Tony’s fingers.

“Divestment. Trying to get their university to use a different bank than Wells Fargo for their operating account.”

“What did Wells Fargo do?”

“Racist stuff.”

“Ah.”

Tony flashes Officer Pedesco a teasing salute on his way out. Officer Pedesco returns it with a nervous smile.

“And how did you get involved?” Tony asks, stepping through the door Steve is holding open.

“The young lady I was talking to — Jada — contacted me. She's a second year law student. She said they might listen, because I still have a lot of pull with white guys.”

Tony raises an eyebrow but Steve’s not looking at him, innocently ducking into the car and exchanging pleasantries with Happy. Tony thinks there’s probably something to unpack about that later — the tight anger in Steve’s voice, the way his eyes are flashing, these are all signs that this is not something he’s going to let go anytime soon. Tony wants to help, if he can. Steve's been gradually teaching him more nuanced ways of community engagement than just writing enormous checks. To be fair, a lot of it is still just that, but connecting with people on the ground, inviting organizers to parties and checking in on their progress, that’s all important, too.

Tony tucks up against his husband in the back seat, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder and shifting around to accommodate the presence of Steve’s arm around his waist. Steve turns his head to press a kiss on top of Tony’s head, and Tony tension he didn’t even know he was holding drain slowly out of his body.

“In the morning,” Tony starts, briefly cut off with a small yawn, “in the morning, you’re going to teach me about Divestment. And we’ll talk about what we can do.”

“Sounds good,” Steve hums, hand edging beneath the hem of Tony’s shirt, rubbing the sensitive skin along his hip. “I love you. Sorry you had to pick me up from jail.”

Tony grins lazily, lifts his head from Steve’s shoulder to look up at him. “Come on, Rogers,” he leans forward, kisses the concerned tilt of Steve’s mouth, “I knew exactly what I was getting into when I married you.”

Steve pinches him a little, but laughs as Tony kisses him, tipping their foreheads together. Tony’s absolute favorite thing about being married is that they don’t have to talk after that, but they can still be together — they go home, they brush their teeth in exhausted silence, they crawl into bed next to each other, and they conk out completely, Ruby dozing fitfully at their feet. And Tony isn’t stuck there, wondering if Steve still likes him or if he’s doing enough to entertain him, because Steve doesn’t stop touching him for a single second. He runs his hands up Tony’s sides, he kisses his neck, he throws one perfectly sculpted leg around Tony’s waist. The feeling of him snoring against the back of Tony’s neck is actually probably most reassuring.

At the end of the day or at the end of their (sometimes x-rated) nighttime activities, they just drift off to sleep. Like it’s easy. Like it’s magic. Like for the first time in Tony’s life, he doesn’t have to keep asking himself if this is going to last, because he knows, with blinding certainty, that it will. 

* * *

That’s not to say everything fucked up about their lives just disappears. They might be able to get to sleep pretty easy, but waking in the middle of the night is a stubbornly persistent problem.

It manifests differently in both of them. Tony wakes up violently, shouting or thrashing, and he hates for Steve to touch him immediately after. He has to excuse himself to the restroom, sit in the empty bathtub for a couple hours and repeat to himself: _I don’t need a drink, I don’t need a drink, I don’t need a drink_. When he finally re-emerges, Steve is pretending to be asleep in their bed, and Ruby is trotting up to him with her ears tucked back, shoving her wet nose into his palm.

She helps, surprisingly. It only happens every few months, and Steve always makes him go to therapy the next morning. That helps, too.

It’s manageable. It’s more manageable than Tony ever thought it could be.

What’s — what’s far, far worse is when it happens to Steve.

Because Steve doesn’t wake up screaming, he doesn’t shake the bed, he doesn’t twist the sheets. He — _cries,_ but it's so much more intense than that. And it's completely silent, sometimes in his sleep. And if he does wake up for it, he still doesn’t make a sound, just presses the back of his hand to his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut.

And the worst thing is, since he’s so quiet, Tony doesn’t always wake when it happens. Sometimes he does, and then he can gather Steve into his arms, rub his chest, kiss his forehead, and tell him it’s going to be just fine. Everything’s going to be just fine.

But when he doesn’t, he wakes up to find his husband curled into a little ball at the furthest end of the bed, and Tony has to carefully unfurl him in the early hours of the morning.

He attends therapy far more often than Tony, and goes on lots and lots of runs, which he says help. He’d never admit it, but physical affection helps, too, so when Tony knows he’s having an off day the first thing he does is tackle him onto the couch and pepper his face with kisses.

They do what they can with what they have. At the center of his heart and the pit of his stomach, Tony is certain it's sustainable

So life isn’t _exactly_ perfect, but in another sense, it kind of totally is. Because after everything they’ve been through, he never expected to get out without a little damage and, when the sadness clears and feeling edges its way back into their hearts, the view from the other side is fucking spectacular.

Healing is slow, but maybe that’s alright, because Steve and Tony have forever.

That prospect had seemed so daunting at first, but after a little while, Tony doesn’t even realize how much time is passing. Months go by, he and Steve fall into a routine, and, yeah, maybe that routine entails almost dying one or two times, but domestic bliss looks different for everyone. In any case, before he can even comprehend it, they’re creeping up on their one year anniversary and Steve is asking him what he wants to do with these expectant puppy dog eyes.

“Hmm,” Tony muses into the rim of his coffee mug. He takes one long, purposefully slow sip, eyeing his husband curiously. “Kinda looks like you already have an idea.”

Steve takes a breath. “If you don’t like it, you can say no.”

“Alright.”

“Seriously. It won’t hurt my feelings.”

“Alright,” Tony says again, amusement growing.

“I was thinking we could go back to the place we got married — the mansion upstate,” Steve starts, eyes going all warm and fuzzy. “Rent it out, but this time it’s just the two of us. And Ruby Tuesday. I know it’s a bit extravagant, but we were so busy with preparations that we never really got to enjoy the place. I really wanted to go apple picking, check out the farmer’s market—“

“—will you make me hike?” Tony interjects, raising an eyebrow.

“No.”

“Will you make me eat quinoa?”

“I don’t know where you’re getting this quinoa thing from, I have _never_ tried to make you do that and I don’t even eat—“

“Yes,” Tony cuts in again, taking another sip of his coffee.

Steve’s eyes get all wide and hopeful, and Ruby seems to sense his excitement because Tony can here the thump, thump, thump of her tail from underneath their dining table. “Really? It’s expensive, but it’s not quite as flashy as the parties you’re—“

“Yes, Steve,” Tony repeats, rolling his eyes even as an affectionate smile tugs at his mouth. “I can’t think of anything better than spending a weekend with you in a remote location doing nothing but having sex and eating apple pie.”

“Who is baking the pie in this scenario?”

“I feel like we can figure that out later.”

“Fair enough,” Steve concedes, smiling in that breathtakingly beautiful way of his, like he’s actively trying to give sunshine a run for its money. He leans across the table to kiss Tony, and Ruby noses around their feet in interest.

They carry on with the rest of breakfast — Tony shaming Steve for putting ketchup all over his eggs (disgusting), and Steve very carefully and diligently monitoring Tony’s caffeine intake (something about him getting older now. Whatever.) It’s the same thing they do every morning, but there’s a hum of excitement at their new plans underscoring the conversation. Steve smiles just a little brighter at Tony's jibes and kisses Tony just a little longer at their goodbye.

And Tony ponders, as he watches Steve leave for work, how he could’ve thought forever was a burden. Forever — like Steve, like Ruby, like apple-picking for their one-year anniversary, like bickering over early-morning breakfast — is undoubtedly, unequivocally among the greatest of gifts Tony Stark has ever been given.

**Author's Note:**

> yaaaay the end of the marriage verse! i'm so pleased. probably gonna not post for a bit since i'll be traveling, but i still have lots of ideas & wips.


End file.
